


Belief

by exactly13percent



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exactly13percent/pseuds/exactly13percent
Summary: Jean hasn't had much in his life. He has had fewer good things. Now, he has two.And they love him.





	Belief

1.

His mornings are soft.

That’s the only word for them—soft. _Soft_ , like Jeremy’s hair against his neck. Like the whisper of Kevin’s breath on his cheek, faintly warm and humid.

Kevin and Jeremy curl around him like parentheses. They enclose him ( _Jean_ ) and the sun never wakes him because it’s blocked by bodies on either side.

Maybe they don’t want the light to touch him because it’s too hot. Too sharp.

The bodies tangled with Jean’s long limbs are lopsided. Jeremy is more compact; he’s steady, grounding, firm. Kevin is taller; he’s yielding, flexible, lean. Even if they don’t make perfect bookends, they are still determined. It is the world against them, and nothing ever touches Jean.

Jeremy usually wakes first. He has never been forced to operate on a Raven schedule, and besides that, he is the sun. The _real_ sun, at least to Jean and Kevin.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, his lips curved into a sweet little smile. His skin is darker from the summer. Just past tan. The freckles dusting his cheeks and nose are darker, too.

Jean’s finger sneaks up toward Jeremy’s ear. He slips it under a wave, honey-blonde, shimmery against the deep brown of the undercut beneath it. “Hey.”

Jeremy just looks.

Jean has found that Jeremy is allowed to look. Not many people are. Not many people ever were. Jeremy is one of them; he is one that Jean doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind having honey-brown eyes resting on his nose, or his chin, or even his lips.

Jeremy doesn’t chase or press against Jean. He simply watches, and he waits patiently to be allowed or refused.

Jeremy is allowed to look. He is allowed because he has never looked with pity or disdain. He is allowed because Jeremy is the sun—

—he is warmth, he is peace, he is shining.

Jean is inclined to let Jeremy in, so he inclines his head and waits. Waits for Jeremy’s heavy lashes to lower. Waits for Jeremy to lean in, soft, his breath warm against Jean’s mouth for a long minute.

Jeremy waits. Allows Jean time to change his mind or draw back. When nothing happens, he leans in and finishes closing the distance.

Jean’s favorite breakfast is Jeremy’s kiss. It warms him like French blend never could. Sets his heart thumping more than a jog.

_Sunlight._ Jeremy tastes like sunlight and promises, and all the other things Jean was never allowed.

Things he has, now.

Jeremy presses a shorter kiss to Jean’s lips, like a wax seal on a carefully folded envelope. He leans back and there is still a vague haze of sleep on his face. “Sleep,” he says, and his nose bumps against Jean’s. “We have the weekend. Sleep.”

Jean closes his eyes and pulls Jeremy against his chest. Feels the sheets tucked up to his shoulders, warmth trapped against him like golden legs tangled with his.

“Sleep,” Jeremy whispers, and Jean does.

 

2.

He is never uncomfortable, anymore.

It is more than questions and patience. There are times when no words are said, but Jeremy and Kevin make efforts to check. To ensure that Jean is comfortable, and that nothing is too much. Too fast, too soon, too close.

They also make sure that Jean eats. That he has warm showers, and that his hair is always brushed to shining, blue-black silk. Kevin and Jeremy ensure that Jean has plenty of pairs of socks (that they are always paired, when they go into the dryer) and that he never runs out of his favorite morning coffee.

Maybe they find comfort in comforting him. One form of happiness for another.

He thinks about these things sometimes, after practice; when he is loose and contemplative and fresh from the shower. Jean fights away the threat of sleep on the couch, but he is cold. The heater hasn’t warmed the place up yet, and the ambient temperature is too much of a change after his shower. Jeremy is in now, so his body heat is elsewhere. The blankets are an entire sofa away, and Jean doesn’t want to move. Not now.

Kevin’s hand slips onto Jean’s head. He is allowed to touch. _Again,_ Jean should think, because there was a time _before_ when Kevin was allowed to touch.

_Now_ is more important.

Jean closes his eyes. Focuses on the warm hand and the calluses he can feel. He could map out the old scars with his eyes closed, and he could map out the ring, too. Not just because it matches his and Jeremy’s.

Kevin’s hand presses against Jean’s temple, as if he is checking for sickness. “You’re cold,” he murmurs, and Jean can hear the frown in his voice.

The touch disappears. Jean misses it, but not nearly as much as he missed Kevin.

He almost gave up. Almost, _almost_ gave up.

He’s glad he didn’t.

Kevin’s footsteps signal his return. His hand brushes Jean’s head, forewarning. The sweater he slips over Jean’s head is familiar; it’s the blue one. Kevin’s old one. Jean had taken it one day, when he was cold and huddled on the sofa. Kevin only ever took it back when he was playing an away game.

Jean is lazy. Almost too lazy to lift his arms, but he does, because the sweater still smells faintly like Kevin’s bodywash and cologne. There is something to be said about how it feels—

—to be encompassed this way, all smell and warmth and the softness of an expensive sweater on his skin. Jean thinks taking the sweater was the best thing he ever did.

“Better?” Kevin leans over Jean’s shoulder. Pauses there, waiting for a signal.

Jean turns his head. Finds Kevin’s beauty marks dotting his face, dark-brown-almost-black against brown skin. “Better,” he murmurs. “Best.”

Kevin meets the tilt of Jean’s head with soft lips, as warm and plush as always. His fingers toy with the hair at Jean’s neck, lazily curling.

Kevin has always been sweet on Jean’s tongue—comfort, reassurance, and hope.

Hope was dangerous, before. Now, it feels more like it belongs. Like _he_ belongs.

“You should sleep,” Kevin mumbles, when he pulls away. His hands move, but they pause at Jean’s knees and shoulders.

Jean leans into the touch. Leans into Kevin when he pulls Jean up and carries him off, as if Jean is not too large or heavy, when they are the same size.

Kevin deposits Jean into bed carefully. Slowly, as if one wrong move will shatter the peace. He pulls the covers up and starts to leave—

—and so, Jean slips his hand over Kevin’s. Waits for Kevin to turn around again.

“Stay?”

Kevin’s fingers tangle with his. Smooth over Jean’s knuckles, soft and reassuring, as if Jean is the ones with scars there. “Always,” he whispers. Jean tucks his chin into the neck of the sweater he is wearing, and he believes Kevin. Always.

 

3.

He is always gifted.

Unexpectedly, of course, because Jean does not expect anything from either Jeremy or Kevin. It is far more than he would ask for them to simply be by his side.

So, it is unexpected when Jeremy comes home from coaching and brings a strange box with him. He’s oddly out of breath; as if he really did just come from the court and ran all the way home. Jean could see him doing it—excited, impatient, laughing brightly.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, and his smile curves his lips like a rose petal.

Jean is on the couch. _His_ couch, Jeremy and Kevin fondly call it, because it’s the only one long enough to house Jean’s legs and soft enough for him to burrow into. It’s another cold-wet day, and Jean is wearing Kevin’s sweater again, this time preemptive. He is drowsy, but Jeremy has woken him right up. “Hey.”

“You look so cozy,” Jeremy says, a delighted laugh tumbling out the other end of his sentence. Jean thinks if he were another type, he might blush. “How’s your day been, cariño?”

“Good,” Jean mumbles. He waits for Jeremy to draw closer; close enough for Jean to curl his hands in Jeremy’s jacket and tug him closer.

Jeremy abandons the box in his hands to hold Jean’s face when he kisses him. It’s just another thing that is _Jeremy_ , and Jean has always wondered if he does it because he thinks it could transfer some of his warmth. Like the sun inside Jeremy could seep out of his skin and somehow warm Jean, radiant and peaceful.

That must be it, Jean thinks, because that is what happens. Jeremy’s hands transfer warmth and joy, and Jean is left with a sense of completion that he cannot wrap his mind around.

He doesn’t try too hard. Sometimes, it is better to let go.

Jeremy pulls back after a few minutes. Presses a short kiss to Jean’s forehead and then sits on the floor, his knees hiked up while he wiggles his fingers and reaches for the abandoned box on the coffee table. “I have something for you.”

“I noticed.” Jean watches. He likes the very specific curve of muscle in Jeremy’s arm when he reaches. He likes the way Jeremy’s jacket hikes up and leaves golden skin exposed at his waist, like a sliver of sunlight breaking through drawn curtains.

“I’m sure it won’t be the same, but I thought you would like them. I should probably have waited until Friday, but…”

Jeremy unwraps the box. Jean frowns; he almost asks _what’s Friday_ until he realizes, belatedly, that it is probably Valentine’s Day.

Funny.

Two days from now, he has plans. Plans with Jeremy and Kevin. Unlike their other date nights, it’s supposed to be special.

None of them ever really had a chance to celebrate. For once, they have decided that this is a thing they want to try. Not even because of what it is, or what people believe—because they can take it back. Because they _can_.

“Here.” Jeremy offers the box. He is the gift-giving type that is…not confident, Jean thinks; that is not the word. Assured, maybe. At peace with the giving. Like if the gift is rejected, he won’t mind.

Not that Jean would ever reject a gift from Jeremy.

The box is weighty in his hands. It feels expensive; sturdy. It is a rich, red velvet color with clean edges. The lid comes halfway down the box, and it is only an inch or two deep. He rests it on his lap and lifts carefully. He can feel the slight catch as the lid stubbornly stays in place before giving in to his pull.

When the box is finally opened, Jean is immediately hit with a wave of chocolate. It rushes at him all at once; richness, sweetness, and the delicate luxury of something foreign.

The funny thing is, he finds himself standing on a cobblestone street. Holding someone’s hand while he looks in a window, eyes wide. A man is stirring chocolate, content, and Jean can smell it. He can smell dark chocolate and he can see everything they use for flavor—orange peel, vanilla, dried strawberries. He wants to press his hands through the glass and enter, and then the person holding his hand smiles and says, _let’s go_ , as if it is no problem to enter this magical otherworld.

Jean is in France, standing at the door to a tiny shop that smells like chocolate—and then he is home again, with Jeremy crouching before him and resting his chin on his arms.

“Oh.” The word comes out in a gasp of air—a deflation of breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Jean blinks and is glad he isn’t crying. “I…”

“You liked them a lot,” Jeremy explains, even if he doesn’t need to, because he can tell when Jean needs time. He fills up the space with bright words, and somehow, he makes the silence lighter. “I’m sure it’s not as good as being right there in France, but—”

“I love it,” Jean says, without any hesitation—and he somehow manages the rest without hesitation, too. “I love you.”

Jeremy’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, like rays of sunlight. “I love you too.”

 

4.

He has everything he needs and more.

Jean is asleep, on the couch. There are three blankets piled over him. One is from Jeremy, and it is embroidered with bright flowers along the edge; the other is from Kevin, and it is soft and fluffy. The third is one Jean picked out—chose with _his_ money, on a trip to the store _he_ decided he wanted to take.

Jean is asleep and then he is not, because he can hear the soft tap of Kevin’s shoes against the floor. Kevin went to the store, or something, and he left after he gave Jean a kiss on the forehead and added the third blanket. _I’ll be back._

There is no pressure to move, or even to wake up. Jean could close his eyes and curl up tighter, and he could sleep on the couch as long as he wanted. Or at least as long as Jeremy and Kevin were comfortable leaving him there, because they’ve both said _sleeping on the couch too long will hurt your back and neck,_ and sometimes Jean wakes up in bed because he was carried there.

The rustle of a bag escapes the kitchen. It’s not food, because Jean can’t smell anything. He wonders if Kevin went to buy more coffee beans, or maybe a new sweater.

He could sleep, but part of him is curious, and another part wants to hug Kevin.

Jean rolls off the couch and takes one of the blankets with him, draped over his shoulders as he shuffles into the kitchen. There’s a paper bag on the counter, from the grocery store a few blocks down the street. It never takes Kevin long to visit; he walks so fast, Jean sometimes thinks he’s about to break into a sprint.

“Were you hungry?” Jean scoots closer, holding his blanket closed at his throat. Kevin looks up from the bag he is unpacking, a bag of coffee grounds in hand. _Grounds?_ Strange.

Kevin abandons the groceries. He might be psychic, or maybe they are just really this close—he pulls Jean into his arms; lets Jean tuck his chin against Kevin’s shoulder. “No. Did I wake you?”

“No.” Jean can smell rain on Kevin. Faint, like it was still lingering in the air and not yet fallen when Kevin went out.

“Are you hungry?”

Jean considers. Feels his stomach grumble at him a little. It will be another two hours until Jeremy is home, and he thought sleeping would help him ignore the hunger. “Yes.”

“Sit,” Kevin prompts. He presses a kiss to Jean’s cheek absently; his hands are already wandering away.

Jean likes watching Kevin’s hands. He likes watching—seeing that Kevin is fine, and he is whole, and the scars on his skin aren’t as important as the powdered sugar that puffs onto them when he opens the bag wrong.

There is a bag in the way. Jean reaches out to move it, but Kevin lifts a finger to his mouth. He smiles, and Jean forgets what he wanted to do, because when Kevin smiles it changes his face. He looks younger; as young as he is supposed to be. Unmarked. He looks not like a model, or a professional Exy player, or a star. He looks like _Kevin_.

Jean’s hand retreats. He is content not to look at Kevin’s hands. He looks at Kevin’s face, instead. Traces lines between the moles on his face. Thinks about when he once used an eyeliner pencil to draw constellations between the beauty marks. _Look, you’re my universe._

Kevin is cutting something. He works carefully, and Jean lingers on the curve of Kevin’s lashes. The thick fan against his cheekbones, dark and delicate. Kevin is beautiful.

Finally, Kevin slides the bag out of the way. There is a sandwich on the plate before him; a half-sandwich made with one piece of impossibly fluffy bread. It’s peanut butter.

Alongside the sandwich is a small cluster of pitted cherries.

Jean stares at them. He remembers when Kevin would steal some from the cafeteria. He’d bring them back to the Nest and slip them to Jean. _Sweet,_ he’d said, and the unspoken end to his sentence was _sweet, like you_. The cherries were just one way Kevin looked after him. Just one way Kevin would try to find a bright light for Jean.

Jean rolls a cherry beneath his finger. “Is that why you went?”

“Yes.” Kevin plucks a cherry from the plate and offers it.

Jean opens his mouth; lets the sweetness of the fruit burst on his tongue when he bites it. He forgets when the last time he had cherries was.

Kevin rests his chin in his hand. He is looking, too. Jean wonders what he sees.

Jean remembers something. Smiles to himself and reaches for the bowl of cherries by Kevin’s arm. They still have their pits and stems, but Jean wants one that way. He wants it because he presses it to Kevin’s lips and watches, waiting, while Kevin works at it. Jean watches Kevin’s lips redden at the center and watches the movement of his tongue.

Kevin drops the pit into his hand, and then he twists a few more times and presents Jean with the stem, perfectly knotted. He smiles.

“You’re still good at it,” Jean mumbles. Kevin laughs quietly until Jean pulls him closer, over the island between them that might as well be invisible. They are two souls unmoored, but Jean thinks he can find anchor in the way Kevin kisses him, certain and firm.

Kevin draws back a little too soon. Jean almost pouts—he is thinking about Kevin’s tongue, still—but Kevin just smiles and slides the plate closer. “Eat,” he says patiently.

Jean curls his hand around Kevin’s. “I love you,” he says, and he means more than for just the sandwich.

He means for the cherries, then and now. The anchor.

Kevin’s cherry-stained lips press against Jean’s cheek. “I love you, too.”

 

5.

He is loved.

Jean is loved when Jeremy wakes him and there is a bubble bath waiting, water hot and the soap floral. Vanilla hangs in the air.

Jean is loved when Kevin makes him French toast, the powdered sugar dusted over cherries and strawberries and blueberries. There is honey, sticky on the side of the plate.

Jean is loved when Jeremy announces he has tickets to Jean’s favorite ballet, and when Kevin bundles Jean into one of his sweaters. The sunlight outside is bright and the air is crisp and chilly.

Jean is loved when Jeremy laughs and offers his wine glass, when they are out for a late dinner. Jean is loved when Kevin gives him most of his third of dessert. The candlelight in the restaurant is warm, and it illuminates Jeremy and Kevin’s faces with soft luminescence.

Jean is loved when Jeremy kisses him, lips and chest and all the way down.

Jean is loved when Kevin kisses him, eyes and nose and his tongue sweet in Jean’s mouth.

Jean is loved in words and ways and body. He has so much love he does not know where to put it, and it spills from his mouth in bursts of gasps and panted words. He has so much love he could drown in it.

It does not matter that it is Valentine’s. Time and date don’t matter as much as Kevin and Jeremy, and the way they are warm while they enclose Jean in their embrace.

He falls asleep between them, the room warm and the sheets pulled up to his chin. His heart beats steadily and he uses it like a lullaby, met with the whispers of Jeremy and Kevin breathing.

Every thump of his pulse says, _you are loved, you are loved, you are loved._

**Author's Note:**

> This got away from me as I wrote it, but I hope it comes across the best way possible! Please enjoy.


End file.
